When we first pulled into that campground, we were in pure traveler mode, showing each other favorite places, finding new ones, and soaking up the view that framed our back window: a wide field with animals and mountains beyond. We never meant to stay, but the place fit, so we let it. Days turned into seasons. Somewhere in the middle of it all, we set up a leather shop inside the rig. He kept teaching me, and the tools multiplied the way good hobbies do. Totes, bags, and toolboxes lined the island. A granite slab anchored the workstation. We spent more than one evening asking how we would move that heavy piece safely.
Moving day finally came into focus, and the answer arrived with it. A young man stopped by to pick up a belt we had made for him the night before we left. We asked if he could help with the slab. He lifted it as if it weighed nothing and carried it where we needed. That small kindness set the tone. I sorted the leather next, keeping the good hides, giving useful scraps to a friend, tossing what was truly beyond saving. Anything that did not belong under the bed or over the back of the recliner went into totes and then into the basement of the rig.
The whole reset took three weeks. If I were fully healthy it would have been quicker, but I worked in a rhythm that suits me now: do a little, rest a little, then do a little more. We were also leaving with one less vehicle, so everything that used to ride there had to find a new home. I climbed into the bed of the truck and played Tetris while he handed things up. I directed traffic and he supplied the muscle. By the night before departure, almost everything was stowed. Only the last-minute items were left for morning.
Our travel routine is second nature now. Laptops, cameras, a small cooler, snacks, and Vixen go in the truck. The bed gets the desktop monitor and the Cricut, tucked in with throw pillows and blankets so they ride soft. The coffee maker, paper towels, and my utensil basket go into the sink. After coffee I take a quick shower, then the bottles and caddies go into a tote at the bottom of the tub. The trash can and scale ride in the shower as well. Those final steps take about fifteen minutes when we are in sync, and even less when we split the work. Over time the routine needs small tweaks, but the bones stay the same.
We pack differently for a single overnight. There is no reason to pull everything out. Clear the bed, free the sink, set the shower for a quick rinse if needed, and call it good. The point is to arrive with enough energy left to breathe.
Leaving after two and a half years felt big and small at the same time. Big because a place had quietly become home. Small because all it took was reversing the habits we had built there, one tote at a time. It was work and it was teamwork. It was learning to accept help, to pace the hard parts, and to trust that the road was still ours, even with a leather shop, a granite slab, and a life we had built inside four moving walls.